Friday, September 7, 2018

Photography is the art of observation. It has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them.

Elliott Erwitt

I spend the morning in my manuscript crafting, if not sandcastles,  rudimentary structures that lay the foundation for them.   Maya let’s me know that it’s time for a break around noon,  and we go outside where the sun is shining and it’s relatively warm.

I had considered, in the back of my mind, going to the park and playing photographer in the afternoon; the warmth of the sun on my body convinces me. I pack my camera bag, make a short list of errands I need to run while I’m out, and set a course.

I find magic in the park and, as I drive home afterwards, converse with the Creator about it. Then, after dabbling in post-processing, I head out to the hot tub and continue the—mostly one-way—conversation. Listening.

And it is well.

Word wrangler. Photo taker. I'm here early every morning with one of my photos and a few simple words. | Nulla dies sine linea: not a day without a line. | Soli Deo gloria: to the glory of God alone.

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